Saturniidae
by Darius
Summary: Gwen's POV while looking at Ethan, Theresa, and the baby. Angsty, with an alternate ending to what happened on the show.


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Saturniidae

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Porch light! Porch light!  
My shining star!  
My compass needle's North!  
"Keep back," they say   
I can't!  
"Don't Touch," they say   
I must.

--"The Moth's Serenade" Paul Fleischman

You don't know how much it hurts me to see you like this. 

I stand here in this softly lit room, sheathed in a gown of pale blue silk. I've brushed my hair (one hundred shining strokes, like mother always insists); pressed delicate rose musk to my wrists. The scent of it reminds me of how you got it for me for my birthday, years ago. I only wear it on special occasions now, as I do my diamond earrings, the ones daddy gave me before he died. I've pinched my cheeks until the blood rushed to the surface, leaving a golden peach-pink blush, the way you always loved. 

Or at least you used to, until she came. 

She bewitched you with her insidious tendrils of ebony hair, her eyes like dark, glistening jewels, shining with a madness you mistook for love. Even now, dressed for bed, I can see all the makeup she's wearing for you, shimmering false in the light. I stand here, cold, and wonder: what did she have that made you turn from me? How could her endless lies and childhood obsession obscure ten years of you and I being faithful to one another? I would leave for a few weeks, on business, trying to uphold the family name, and return to find the man who'd pledged to marry me a little less my own, every single time. You'd have thought I might've stayed around more often afterwards, but I trusted you. Deep down, I think I was testing you when I saw you slipping away, giving you time to resist the temptation. To reaffirm the love you swore was undying. The love you swore was only for me. 

But you didn't.

And now, how can you not see when you cradle her child and hold it so tenderly, how much it hurts me?

I can feel my heart fluttering in my chest like a dying moth, drawn to the flame for one final, fatal flight. When you sit there, still close to her after all she's done to the both of us, I'm on the outside, looking in, after all this time, and I can feel it as surely as I felt you slipping away. My face is pressed close to an invisible glass that's cold as ice now, one that I can never break. But from now on, I'm not going to live like this. Not anymore. My heart can't take it. 

And so I walk from the room, silent as a ghost. No one notices, and I'm not surprised. I can remember a time, one that seems like long ago, when my comings and goings for you were like the rising and setting of the sun. But when I look at you now, feel desire rise hotly from my belly at the hard muscles gleaming beneath your tight black tank top, I know you'll never fully belong to me again. And I can never look you in the eyes anymore, because all I can see is _her_ reflection waiting in them, staring back at me. And how she _smiles_ in them. . . 

So I waft downstairs, and glide onward into the dark, silent garage, filled with gleaming, empty sports cars. The cement is unforgiving on my bare feet, but in moments I find what I came for. The Crane mansion was always well stocked. I move back into the kitchen, tearing off the cap of the tank, and I let gallons of gasoline fall to the floor in glimmering, noxious pools that splatter everywhere. I soak it into the carpets, send it gushing all over the walls. It spills down my gown, and as it stains the fabric, a bit of laughter seeps through my throat, slips past my teeth, and bubbles past my lips. This'll stop that damn Cheshire-cat grin of hers, once and for all, won't it? 

Won't it?

From my nightgown, I pull out a thin, cheap matchbook, and withdraw a single, sterling match. I strike it against the book-- hard. The flame burns on its cardboard stalk like a tiny, fierce star, illuminating my face with golden heat and light. I let it slip through my fingers, and the realization of what I'm doing hits me like an early, chilling ice-blue frost, slaps me in the face with the stark, insane, nightmare reality of it all. I wonder belatedly if what I'm doing is right, but for some reason, all I can think of are moths. Clouds of them, all spiraling downward pathetically. 

Their wings are of burnt blood and pale blue silk. 

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End

[Disclaimer: "Passions", Gwen, and all the other characters are legally used and abused by NBC and JER, and not me.]


End file.
